


Sweeter than the Flowers

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: spnspringfling, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 07:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10692192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: Sam has been getting panic attacks for a long time. There are all kinds of things that trigger them... a few bouquets of flowers are apparently one of them.





	Sweeter than the Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightinthehall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightinthehall/gifts).



> Beta'd by [dancing_adrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancing_Adrift)!

Sam has been getting panic attacks for a long time. Ever since he was kid, thrown into the world of hunting at a way too young age.

They come and go. Sometimes he's fine for months, sometimes he'll have them as frequently as every other day for a few weeks. He's gotten good at hiding them, knows to retreat when the signs start popping up – the way his chest clenches tight, stomach twisting, breath becoming short, as an unexplainable fear grips him. He's learned breathing techniques and thought patterns to help him through.

He never really knows what might set him off, as the triggers seem to change. It was fire for a while – not every fire, thank God, but sometimes the smell of smoke or the bright orange of a flame would make anxiety bubble up inside of him, sharp and painful. Other times, being alone sets him off – that started right after Dean died for the first time and the silence of empty rooms became too oppressive for Sam to take it. He went through a phase where being in small spaces would make him freak out, so much so that he started leaving the door to the bathroom open. When Dean was in Purgatory, when Sam had nothing left to work or hope for because Dean was just gone without a trace, all bets were off for the first weeks and literally anything could push Sam over the edge, make him sink down to his knees and gasp out wet, breathless sobs as he tried to regain control and make his heart stop racing.

It is somewhat comforting to Sam that, through all of this, he can usually explain why it's happening. Even at his worst, there is a tiny, rational voice in his head that understands, that can analyze exactly why Sam is panicking. It makes him feel less crazy.

But then, one day, it's a few, harmless bouquets of flowers that make Sam spin momentarily out of control.

+

The house is meticulously kept. Trimmed rose bushes line the porch, the flowers in full bloom; the white picket fence looks freshly painted and the hardwood floor inside is so shiny Sam is almost afraid to walk on it.

The house comes with a crying widow, wearing a perfectly pressed women's suit and delicately dabbing her eyes with a white cotton handkerchief.

It's too picture perfect and it's making Sam feel antsy.

Or maybe it's all the flowers, making his nose itch and his eyes water a little. Sam has never before been allergic, but he guesses this many flowers will make any immune system give up in defeat. They're everywhere – bouquet after bouquet lining the tables and counters and window sills in the house, crammed into every nook and cranny.

"From my friends," Mrs. Larson says, when Sam notes the flowers offhandedly. She dabs her eyes again and Sam gives her a forced, polite smile.

She leaves to make coffee for them after showing them into the living-room, and Dean nudges him.

"Dude," he says. "'s like a fucking flower shop threw up in here."

"Yeah," Sam says, the tension clear in his voice now that Mrs. Larson is out of earshot. Dean sends him a look, one that's amused and concerned and 'the fuck is going on with you, Sammy' all at once.

Sam shrugs, presses his lips together. He isn't sure what's bothering him, but the place is making him feel uncomfortable.

The flowers are making the air smell overwhelmingly sweet. It's like they're sucking all the air right out of the room, replacing it with a cloying, stuffy fragrance that makes it hard to breathe. Sam swears he can almost see it swirl around the air, feel it wrap itself around him, pressing in on him.

He tugs at the collar of his button-down, trying to loosen the band around his throat. 

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, keeping his voice low. Sam can hear the clicking of Mrs. Larson's heels on the floor as she returns and he wonders, briefly, if her shoes are leaving scratches on the perfect floor.

He coughs. "Fine," he lies. 

He expects Dean to either prod or tease him for acting so weird, but Dean nods and straightens up. He gives his most charming smile as Mrs. Larson steps back into the room with a tray.

Sam curls his hand into a loose fist, fingers dragging over the material of his dress pants. He keeps breathing, picturing pollen entering his lungs, sticking to every last inch of them until they're coated in an oppressive layer of yellow.

+

Outside, Sam sucks in deep breaths, greedy for the clean air.

He wants to linger. Wants to stay outside, where it smells faintly of damp pavement and wet grass. He swears he can still smell the flowers, feels like he's covered in a thin coat of the scent, the pollen, wrapped up in it.

He rubs his hands down his arms, as if he can wipe it all away, along with the tightness in his chest.

"Come on," Dean says. He's not pushing Sam, not nagging him. His tone is soft, encouraging, like he's talking to a spooked horse rather than Sam. Sam, who he rarely cuts any slack, who he teases and mocks until Sam blows up at him.

It makes Sam wonder what his tell was, what alerted Dean to the fact that Sam is freaking out over a bunch of _flowers_.

It'd be funny, if Sam didn't feel like his insides are being squeezed too tight.

He gets in the car, and Dean rolls his window down silently before he starts the engine. 

They don't talk, but Sam's okay with that. He sits back, inhales through his nose – leather and car oil and Dean's cheap aftershave. All things that make Sam feel at home. All things Dean.

+

Sam never bought Jess flowers.

He gave her a potted orchid once, and Jess kept it alive until the day their apartment went up in flames.

It wasn't until months after Jess died that Sam purchased flowers for her for the first, and only, time. They were passing through California, and Sam made Dean take a four hour detour to visit her grave. He picked up a bouquet of pink lilies and blue irises at a flower shop on the way. The colors made him think of Jess, vibrant yet soft. He put them on top of her headstone and then he left town again – left Jess and the flowers to rot slowly, painfully away.

He returned to her grave once after that, a couple of years later, and he almost expected his flowers to still be there, the color faded and the petals dried out. Still beautiful, but with no life left in them.

The fact that they were gone, that countless replacements had been placed on Jess's grave since, almost made him feel worse. Like Sam, too, had been wiped away from there, forgotten. Just a thing of Jess's past.

He never went back to her grave after that day.

+

In their motel room, Dean pulls him close by the lapels of his suit jacket. He has to stretch up, face tilted towards Sam's, as he drags him down into a kiss.

He still tastes faintly like coffee, bitter and burned, and Sam coaxes Dean's lips apart and licks into his mouth, his hands fluttering down to Dean's sides, fingers curling in his button-down. 

"You're a weird one, Sammy," Dean murmurs into his mouth, and Sam laughs into the kiss, because it's true. He's always been weird, different, and maybe he's finally cracking, pushed over the edge by fucking flowers.

The thought is so absurd, it kind of makes perfect sense in Sam's head.

Dean pulls back a little and starts pushing Sam's jacket off his shoulders. "Good thing I like weird," he says and then smirks at Sam. He tugs at Sam's collar. "Let's go take a shower, Sammy."

Sam nods, maybe a bit too eagerly. It's irrational, he knows, but the thought of washing off the traces of the flowers lifts a weight from his shoulders. 

He trails after Dean into the bathroom. 

Under the hot spray, with Dean pressed close to him, Sam closes his eyes. He pictures the bright yellow pollen being washed off his body, vanishing down the drain, and breathes a bit easier.

"Duck your head down, gigantor," Dean says, kissing Sam's shoulder, then his jaw. Sam does as he's told and lets Dean wash first his hair and then his body, calloused hands spreading soapy foam over his skin. 

Usually, when Dean does this, it's part of foreplay. Something to get them both riled up, each swipe and press of his hand full of playfulness and intention. Today, there's nothing but comfort and care in his touch. Like he knows exactly what Sam needs. It feels like an absolution. Like every part of Sam's body that Dean comes into contact with is left clean, freeing him piece by piece, making the last traces of panic and unease ebb away. What Sam is left with is an almost overwhelming sense of love, of gratitude. 

Which is why, when Dean is done and gives him a playful smile, saying, "Your turn, Sam," Sam presses their lips together in an open, wet kiss and then sinks down onto his knees. Dean shows his love through touch, through care. Sam uses his words, or does this. Takes Dean into his mouth, sucks him until Dean is fully hard. Thick and hot against Sam's tongue, his lips stretched wide. He lets Dean slide all the way in, down his throat, digs his fingers into Dean's hips and keeps pushing, urging, until Dean starts thrusting into his mouth shallowly. Fingers that just touched him with so much tenderness now twist in his hair, tugging and pulling, tangled hopelessly in wet strands, and Sam moans around Dean's cock.

Head bobbing back and forth, in rhythm with Dean's sloppy thrusts, Sam lets his eyes flutter closed. When Dean comes, hot and sticky, Sam finally feels clean, feels like every last bit of those damned flowers has been washed away, replaced by Dean. 

He lets Dean slide from his mouth and presses his forehead against Dean's wet belly. Closing his eyes, he feels calm.

+

Sam never put flowers on Dean's grave.

He thought about it for a split second, while he buried Dean's body in Pontiac all those years ago, but even the thought of it felt wrong.

Flowers mean good things to other people: dates, weddings, birthdays. To Sam, flowers mean death. Grief.

But Dean wasn't dead – not permanently. His grave was just a safekeeper, storing Dean's body for Sam until Sam found a way to fix things, to bring Dean back. Putting flowers on top of his grave would have made it seem final, like Sam was accepting Dean's death, but the grave Sam dug was never meant to be anything but temporary.

Sam wouldn't buy flowers for Dean. Not when Dean wasn't truly, permanently lost to him. 

Now, years later, lying in bed with Dean in a motel room, their naked bodies twisted together and sheets tossed aside, Sam knows it'll never come to that. He's made his peace with it: the fact that he doesn't want to, refuses to, live without Dean. That, when the day comes, Sam will be right there with Dean.

Maybe somebody else will buy flowers for them. Maybe nobody will care. But Sam will be right where he wants to be, at Dean's side.

He buries his face in Dean's neck, fingers skating over Dean's ribs, and fills his lungs with the clean, warm scent of his brother. Of home.


End file.
